


Cold Blood

by awanderingbard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awanderingbard/pseuds/awanderingbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"When the red dot appeared on Sherlock's chest, John was a moment too late in realizing what was going on. By the time he'd made the connection, Sherlock was already on the ground..."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowfireflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowfireflame/gifts).



> Written for the ever-lovely Shadowfireflame, who wanted Sherlock in very serious danger and John and Mycroft trying to keep him alive until help arrived. Thanks to her for her enthusiasm, and such a great prompt!

John stood outside the Barbican Centre, having just spent a few hours listening to the London Symphony Orchestra perform Shostakovich's _Violin Concerto No 1_ and Tchaikovsky’s _Fifth Symphony_. He had been informed it was very good, but he had no frame of reference. He wasn't even supposed to be there.

Sherlock had got the tickets for Mrs Hudson, who had mentioned a few times that she'd never been to a 'proper' concert. In one of those surprising shows of consideration, he'd given her a pair of tickets for Mothering Sunday (after John pointed out they really should get her something). She'd asked Sherlock to come with her, but, unfortunately, she'd developed a bad cold and couldn't attend. She was very distressed at the idea of them going to waste, so John volunteered to go to placate her. Also unfortunately, Mycroft was in attendance, and he and Sherlock had spent the whole lead up to the performance furiously texting each other from across the theatre.

Now they were arguing about whether or not Mycroft had come on purpose to try to spy on Sherlock, or whether it had been a coincidence. Mycroft pointed out that, as they were raised in the same household, it made sense that he might enjoy the same music as Sherlock. Sherlock countered that Mycroft hadn't been to see the LSO in years, and wasn't it convenient he'd chosen to attend that night? John couldn't decide which one was the truth. He just hoped Mycroft's car came around soon to take him away.

When the red dot appeared on Sherlock's chest, John was a moment too late in realizing what was going on. By the time he'd made the connection, Sherlock was already on the ground, and even then it looked like he'd just lost his footing. He seemed to think the same thing, as he immediately tried to get up, his legs going out from under him halfway. He looked down to the puddle of blood growing on the pavement, and then up at John, his eyes widening in alarm.

“Vatican cameos!” he said.

They'd chosen that phrase because it couldn't mean anything but what it was. It couldn't be accidentally said in a conversation; it couldn't be mistaken for something else. It just meant duck—and John did. A bullet shattered the glass doors behind him.

All this took only a few seconds, and John was still getting his bearings. Mycroft's security detail had him tackled to the ground, and there were surprised screams from other concert-goers. John crawled along to Sherlock, but was held back by one of the security people, who dragged him into the building instead. Someone forced Mycroft in, and another was half-carrying Sherlock.

John crawled again, this time unhindered. Mycroft was trying to wrestle off the security detail, barking orders for phone calls to be made and the area to be cleared. There was blood everywhere: on Sherlock, on the tiled floor, on the security man, and soon on John as he tried to locate the source of it.

He looked around for something vaguely sterile to cover his hands. He remembered Sherlock kept plastic baggies in his coat pocket in case he needed to steal evidence. He fished them out, and stuck each of his hands in one, before continuing his search for the wound.

“Sniper. Must... be... at the far end of his range,” Sherlock mumbled. “Didn't... hear the shots fired. Did you?” John shook his head. “Obviously... a professional. I was... moving, so... hard shot. Must have been... startled. Odd place to hit and I'm not... dead.”

“Don't move, Sherlock, I'm trying to find the wound,” John said. “Lie still.”

“Are you...listening?” Sherlock said, urgently. “You need... to remember. Someone should write it down. I don't...don't want the irony of my own murder going unsolved because... because I wasn't there to solve it.”

“You aren't going to die,” John said. “You're going to be fine. So long as you keep still and let me work. Stop being morbid.”

There was too much blood to find the source. It was pouring out, draining from Sherlock's face and leaving his skin an eerie grey, and his hands ice cold. John ripped open Sherlock's jacket, buttons popping off. He could tell where he'd been hit now, but it was still hard to make out the exact wound. From the way it was pumping out, John guess the bullet had nicked an artery. It didn't look like a through-and-through, but John didn't want to roll Sherlock to look for an exit wound to make sure. The pressure from the floor would be stemming any bleeding somewhat, anyway.

“You sound... calm,” Sherlock said. His voice was weak. “Must be bad. You always...always sound calm when you're scared.”

“That's good, Sherlock, keep deducing,” John encouraged. “Keep talking to me. Just don't move around too much.” He turned briefly to yell over his shoulder. “Someone get me something to raise his legs!”

Mycroft arrived a few moments later, sliding a couple of pillows from one of the couches in the lobby under Sherlock's feet, and kneeling down beside him. “Was that actually meant for you or for me, I wonder?” he asked.

“Me, I think,” Sherlock said. "And shooting at John... was an afterthought."

“I agree,” Mycroft said. A bit of worry had crept into his studiously calm voice now. “You were the main target. Ambulance is on its way, and I've phoned your inspector. I've sent someone up to find the sniper. The roof on the right, do you think?”

“Yes... judging from... angle,” Sherlock said.

John finally found the hole, and stuck another bag over it, then used Sherlock's scarf to apply firm pressure. Sherlock groaned, but John couldn't afford to be gentle. The bullet had definitely hit an artery—maybe the right subclavian, somewhere along his upper rib. John hoped it hadn't hit the lung as well. It was hard to tell if Sherlock's panting was from shock, or because was finding it hard to get air. At least it wasn't near his heart.

“Thirsty,” Sherlock said.

“I know,” John said. “It's the shock. I can't give you anything to drink, sorry.”

“I'm not... in shock,” Sherlock said.

“Loosen his belt,” John ordered Mycroft. “And put your coat over him. We need to keep him warm.”

“I'm not... cold,” Sherlock said, through chattering teeth. The fingers on one of his hands danced restlessly. John used that hand to monitor his pulse, and keep him still. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, in a sort of instinctive movement. His grip was weak.

Mycroft followed John's orders. Then he put his hand on the top of Sherlock's head, pressing down the curls in ruffling motion. It was a practised movement, as though he'd done it many times before. It made John picture them as children, big brother comforting little one. Or maybe a father comforting a child. Sherlock didn't even complain.

“I thought the violas were off,” Mycroft said, conversationally.

“It was... was a... cello,” Sherlock replied, in a matching, if weakened tone. “The one with the... the...”

“Alcholic husband?” Mycroft suggested.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “Probably... no time... to tune it up. She... was late because... her child... er...”

“Her husband missed picking up her child, yes,” Mycroft said.

Mycroft kept this conversation going, Sherlock's deductions growing more and more incoherent, and Mycroft managing to pick them up and carry on. John wasn't sure if Sherlock knew who was he speaking to any more, or what he was saying.

John kept pressure on Sherlock's chest, and monitored his vitals. There was nothing much else to do. Sherlock was agitated and anxious, and kept asking for water.

The ambulance arrived and the security detail escorted the paramedics in.

“GSW to upper right chest, profuse bleeding—suspected damage to artery, pressure applied for the last five minutes,” John rattled off to the first one he saw. “Patient is in hypovolemic shock, tachycardic, tachypnoeic, slow capillary response, decreased level of consciousness.” He took a breath and added, “I'm a doctor.”

The paramedics didn't question him. They worked quickly, getting Sherlock up on the trolley. John followed, still applying pressure. It was best to keep it constant--even the few seconds it would take to swap with someone else was a few seconds too long by this point.

John went in the ambulance with Sherlock. He was unconscious now. John was surprised he'd managed to keep awake as long as he had. The paramedic got an IV going—wide open for maximum infusion—and put a non-rebreather mask on him. His sats were in his boots, and the paramedic noticed diminished breath sound on the right. She aspirated his lung. His sats rose slightly.

The attending at the A&E was someone John knew from medical school—somebody Campbell; he couldn't remember his first name. He'd been ahead of him; a resident whom John had trained under. He seemed to recognize John, but it wasn't really the time for 'oh hey, what have you been up to for the last fifteen years?'. They just exchanged nods.

John knew Campbell was good, and felt a bit comforted by that. Sherlock was transferred to the bed, and his clothes were cut off. John was still applying pressure.

“All right, you can remove your hand,” Campbell said. John didn't move. “Please, remove your hand.” John couldn't move. “Watson? We're going to take care of him. I promise. You've done a great job. It's our turn now. Move your hand.”

John stopped applying pressure. He was turned and escorted from the room by a nurse. He moved sluggishly, and without purpose. He was led to a curtain to be checked over for shock. He started trembling all over, and he couldn't catch his breath. That zone he entered when he was doing trauma—the high of the moment and fending off death—melted away. Now it was just his best friend, fighting for his life, while John waited, unable to do anything more.

**Author's Note:**

> I just feel I should add that Sherlock will be fine, and the culprit will be caught, and everything is fine now.


End file.
